What Is Said In The Silence
by Sumhope
Summary: Alice/Uncas. "He is not Nathaniel who can belong to both worlds. He will always be red. She will always be white." Uncas excerpts throughout the story up to the fateful cliff scene.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I make no profit off this story it is simply a way to amuse myself and anyone who is bored enough to read it. _

Summery: Uncas and Alice have such a beautiful love story in part because of how it ends tragically. I wanted to explore more of what they might have said, or not said to each other. Simple put this is excerpts throughout the story up to the fateful cliff scene. Uncas POV.

_Warning: Some smutty lemony goodness so if this makes you go 'ick' turn back now. Rated M mainly because I say nipple and breast and I want to be on the safe side._

* * *

**"What Is Said In The Silence"**

_Part One_

* * *

Uncas was, by nature, a man of few words.

What he couldn't communicate through hand gestures and the tilt of his head he spoke with the absolute bare minimal of what needed to be said. Nathaniel was the one who relished words, talking aloud his thoughts. Nathaniel was the unofficial spokesman of their group whether they travelled among the white man or red. The arrangement worked for their family unit. Nathaniel's confident verbal capacities were tempered by Uncas's silent observations and balanced by their fathers wisdom.

When they came upon the Hurons ambushing the English they easily fell into their places like a well oiled machine. Communicating efficiently and covering each other they worked like an army of one, taking out man after man seemingly effortlessly. A Huron's blade catches him unaware to slip through his guard and slicing across his ribs. He is not as strong as Nathaniel or as seasoned as his father. Yet. But even so, for his nineteen summers, he is catching up to them more quickly every day. He turns ignoring the smart of the wound and counters with a fatal blow of his tomahawk. The remaining Hurons have fled by now. He reaches down and counts coup on his fallen enemy, claiming his scalp with one clean swipe from his skinning knife. He attaches the scalp to his side and straightens.

As war cries ceased and the moans of the fallen grew quiet Uncas first glimpsed the two women with the English. White women, one dark haired the other light. Pampered, trembling and frightened. Their once pristine clothing mud stained and blood splattered. They cling to each other to stay on their feet. There is little to hold his interest and he dismisses them easily and moves to untie the horses.

Hands tug and grab at his arms.

"Stop it! Stop it!"

It is the blonde women. Her hands are piteously small against his arm, the skin translucent and paper thin and the nails oval and pearly pink. They are the hands of a pampered English lady. A soft weak creature that has no business being in his frontier. He drops the reins of the horses and they run off, into the forest. She keens a desperate kind of cry and half starts after them. He grabs her below her shoulders and brings her to a halt and her eyes swivel to meet his.

"We need them to get out of here!"

Her eyes are the wide doe eyes of a child in a face as delicate as her hands. Her eyes give him pause. They are the color of a stream under moonlight, dark and full of hidden things. And unlike other white women there is no fear or repugnance in her eyes as she glares up at him. He gentles his hold on her. The other women rushes to her side. She then seems to recollect herself and lowers her eyes from his. He drops his hands from her arms and steps back uneasily.

The pasty faced commander of the English soldiers demands of Nathaniel to know why he released the horses thinking as most whites that he and his father know nothing of their tongue. His way would have usually been to let Nathaniel answer and deal with the pale faces. But he is annoyed. Both at the look of the officer and at himself and the urge he feels to look back at the women's eyes. And so he does something very uncharacteristic of himself. He speaks.

"...too easy to track..."

The words though few are enough in and of themselves to explain. But as his traitorous eyes catch hers he finds himself continuing on.

"...they can be heard for miles... find yourself a musket..."

Her large round eyes widen further. She is surprised by his easy english and he feels the small swell of smug satisfaction. He tells himself that his words were just to provoke the arrogant English officer. It is not, he tells himself, to prove wrong her most undoubtedly easy assumption that he is an uneducated savage. But he shouldn't care to surprise her. He shouldn't care.

He brushes quickly past and determines not to look her way again.

* * *

They walk on for several hours.

Chingachgook takes the lead while Nathaniel walks with the English while Uncas brings up the rear. He watched the forest around them carefully. The fort lies over a days journey away and there is still the threat of the Huron. Still his eyes continue to drift forward.

At first the two women walked together leaning on each other for each step. Soon though, the dark haired one moved closer to the officer while the other lingered behind. The white cap she had been wearing had fallen off and her braided and coifed hair was unkempt, wisps of her pale hair falling free to brush against her even paler neck. Her dress, where it was not stained, was a pale rose color. He watched as she struggled to maneuver the heavy skirts swirling round her ankles with each step. He would never understand the white people and their strange clothing. Not only was it completely impractical it also seem like such a waste, the material from her skirt alone would make three or four shirts.

It is a further reminder that this women is a different sort of creature than him. The words of his father, Chingachgook return to him then, "They are a breed apart, the white man. They make no sense." He wouldn't try to understand her for he knew she would never understand him. He forces his eyes away again, studiously scanning the surroundings.

More time passes. From snatches of their conversation that reach him he learns their names. The two women are sisters, daughters of the fort commander, Monroe. The dark haired is called Cora. And the one with the deep eyes is named Alice. The urge to say her name aloud, to taste how it sounds in his mouth is almost overwhelming. The officers name is Duncan. Traveling the stream they reach the base of the hill where water cascades down over earth and rock to crash at their feet. The sight is of the land at its best. It tugs at his heart and sings to his soul and reminds him that he belongs to this land.

The English do not pause to admire the sight. Instead they trudge on heads down to measure their step as they begin to ascend over the rocky hillside. It is another reminder to him. The English do not see the heart of the earth that beats through the soil and water. They see only resources to exploit and use up. He needs these reminders. They help him to remember that she is not as he is.

But then she tramples right over his carefully constructed reminders. She pauses. And with the afternoon sun framing her silhouette she stares up at the waterfall. Her mouth opens with breathless awe and he suddenly wishes he could see what her eyes are saying.

He almost calls her name so she will turn towards him.

* * *

Night falls and they make camp at an old burial ground.

He paces along the perimeter or their camp restlessly for the first hours of the night watching for signs of the Huron. Finally his father grabs his shoulder and tells him in their tongue to get some rest. He knows that sleep is impossible, his mind is whirling with all that the day had brought. But he knows better than to argue with Chingachgook and returns to the makeshift camp. Nathaniel and Cora and talk in hushed voices while Duncan watches resentfully several feet away. Only Alice is sleeping.

Despite his intentions to stay as far away he finds himself drifting towards her and sitting down beside her sleeping form. The moonlight makes her skin, even dirt-streaked and fatigued as it is, glow. He rest his eyes on her face and trys to blot out the images in his head. But the sight of the dead body's of the Cameron's burn unceasingly across his retinas. The charred remains of their log cabin fill his nostrils and his throat aches. He is not a stranger to death but he has not had time to say goodbye or mourn them properly. If they were not escorting the whites to the fort they would have buried their friends in the white tradition. But they would have also blackened their faces and wailed their grief sending the spirits into the spirit world. Instead they had to leave the corpses behind to be fed on by wild animals so that the Huron would not pick up their trail. He resents these english for that. He glares at the girl by his side summoning every ounce of grief and resentment into the glare. He can not hold it for long and all too quickly he is noticing furrow lines between her brows and the darker shade of her lashes.

The night around them speaks. Ghost of footsteps and the movement of bodies surrounds. Rolling to his stomach and grasping his rifle he sees Nathaniel do the same and beyond there are the shadowy figures.

He fingers his rifle, sights down the barrel and readies himself for combat. He is now fiercely glad he is near the girl to protect her. The tomahawk at his waist and the knife strapped to the inside of his thigh lay waiting, a silent reassurance. The figures come closer and he can begin to count the numbers. There are far more than they can take. Not Huron as they had feared but Ottawa and French, just as deadly an enemy.

Next to him she stirs and rolls onto her elbows crawling forward beside him. The sound of her breathing increase and without thinking he acts, grasping her to him. His hand covers her mouth while the other wraps around her waist pulling her towards him. She must be silent. To alert the Ottawa means certain death for some if not all of their party. He rolls her half underneath him, his chest pressing against her back which heaves against his. Her hands come up to tug at his and she thrashes beneath him. He leans in and whispers against her ear, "..._be still_...". She instantly freezes beneath him. Her body is rigid and stiff and he can no longer feel the warm pant of her breath against his palm. He instantly feels consternation for frightening her. "... _you must be still_..._ I will not hurt you_..."

At his words she releases her breath and sags under him. Tendrils of her hair graze his cheek. Her scent surrounds him. Even under the sweat and dirt of the days journey the scent of cleaned linen and flowery perfume remains, clinging stubbornly to her. It is yet another reminder. It is the scent of a gentlewomen.

The Ottawa back off, respecting the burial ground despite the French's wishes otherwise. Slowly he removes his hand from her face and his fingers brush the swell of her lips. She slides out from underneath him. Slowly. He pushes back a groan. Even through the deep layers of her strange clothes he can still feel the curve of her body pressed as it was up to his. She sits back and looks up at him, those deep eyes of hers hidden in shadows. He stares back at her even after she blushes under his scrutiny and looks away.

He resents her anew.

* * *

They walk on after the first hints of light break the horizon.

Everyone is pensive and quiet, lost in their thoughts. Nathaniel's eyes stray far to often to Cora and when he looks away her eyes wander to him. Duncan watches the two, jealousy painted across his face. Uncas wonders what the his brother talked to the white women about during the night. Only Alice seems not to be affected by the dark mood over the group. She talks lightly with Duncan of amusements from her far away home. She talks of fires and hot baths. The mention of baths has him imagining the curves he felt last night without her tattered rose dress to cover them. He shakes the thought free of his head.

He sees now that her words are a farce. Meant to rouse her companions out of their foul moods. She talks on, speaking of gallantry and praises Duncan for his, declaring "...if Cora doesn't marry you, I shall."

The words make him inexplicably angry and he wants to shout out that it is he and his father and brother who saved them from the Huron not the pasty redcoat white man. He wants to take her by the shoulders, shake her and yell at her that it is him that is taking her to her father, it is him that will protect her. Why is it that he feels the overwhelming urge to speak whenever he is around her?

He presses his lips tightly together instead and says nothing at all.

* * *

They arrived to a fort under attack. After a few words with the commander they left to mingle with the frontier militia they knew. The sisters stayed.

Uncas feels empty and unfulfilled... as if there was something left to be said between them. Her and him. But then he reminds himself that there is no such thing as him and her.

They converse with some of the frontier men they know who have left their homes to join the English father's militia. Nathaniel tells the men of the attack on the Cameron's. Munro will not release them from their service. Their choice is clear. Under the cover of darkness and the muskets of both him and Nathaniel the men make their escape, back to families that need protecting. It is a good thing, the right thing, for these men to leave. But Uncas knows the English will consider such acts treasonous. It makes no difference. His brother and he do not answer to the English father across the sea.

The firing of his weapon and the repeated recoil of the rifle into his shoulder has sent the gash on his side aching anew. He would have attended to it himself but the wound is enough out of the reach of his fingers to be awkward. He tells Nathaniel as much and heads for the surgery.

And there she is, the women who he can't shake loose from his thoughts. She sits outside the surgery half-sitting half-leaning against the widow casing. She is withdrawn, seemingly blending into the wall and excepting for her beacon of hair he wouldn't have know it was her in the dark. Her hunched shoulders and bowed head speak volumes of exhaustion. As he glides past her she doesn't look up and he feels the sharp sing of the small rejection too deeply. Much too deeply.

He enters the surgery and sits on a cot before Cora only mildly surprised to see her in a surgeons apron. He glances back at Alice and is uncharacteristically annoyed that she still stares down at her hands instead of him. Raising his shirt would have been enough to show Cora the wound but he is still smarting from her sister's refusal to look at him. He is like a child when ignored, irrationally angered and petty. He pulls his entire shirt off hoping to injure her delicate English sensibilities if she looks up. When she looks up.

He concentrates on Cora's fingers, determined not to glance back yet again at her younger sister. The searing stitch of the needle helps distract him. Several stitches and minutes later Cora is bandaging him up, reaching around him to wrap the guaze around his waist. The gesture is impersonal and necessary to bind the wound, yet from an outside observer it would appear as if the two of them were in an intimate embrace.

He feels eyes on him and starting, he looks up and around. Her hands are grasping handfuls of her skirt and even though the night still cloaks her eyes he can't escape the feeling that she is furious at him. He suddenly feels guilty, which is ridiculous. He doesn't want Cora he wants Alice. No... he can't want that. And yet he still wants to cross the space between them and tell her she has nothing to be jealous of.

Not that she is jealous, why would she be jealous. Is she jealous? He wishes he could read her as easily as he reads trails through the forest.

He stares at her as the night of gunfire and cannon blasts fade away leaving only them. Something shifts between them, something he doesn't quite understand. Her spine goes from rigid to soft. Her hands uncurl. Her eyes are lost in the shadows and he wonders what she is thinking of. He wonders what she thinks of him.

"You about done holding hands with Ms. Monroe?"

Nathaniel says the words jokingly but there is an underlying steel in the words, a warning. Nathaniel needn't worry, he only has eyes for the younger sister. He is grateful to Nathaniel for breaking the intense stillness that seems to have settled on them.

Jerking his eyes away he brushes by her, shaking his head as if he can jar her loose from inside.

* * *

The night passes to the song of gunpowder and cannons. Then Nathaniel is taken from them, shackled and locked away. Uncas cannot understand it. The English say they will hang him. Uncas and his father will not let it happen. For the moment it does not matter. The white mans battle reaches its end, however temporary, and a surrender is agreed upon. The English will leave the fort and Nathaniel is brought with them in chains. Chingachgook and Uncas follow, ready when the time comes to free him.

Up at the front Uncas thinks he sees Alice in a cream dress beside her sister on a horse. The English march in neat rows out into the forest. Then a shrill war cry breaks the silence. The Huron have followed hungry for revenge and scalps. Chingachgook and Uncas head for Nathaniel felling any Huron who gets in their way. As they reach Nathaniel he is already freeing himself from the shackles. Then they are heading for the sisters. The same sense of urgency that bites at Uncas attacks Nathaniel's heels also. The space between them and the women seem impossibly far.

He is fearful. The image of her beautiful eyes empty and dull blur his vision. Time seems to slow. Huron after Huron blocks their path. He is afraid that it is too late.

Nathaniel reaches the women first bludgeoning the brave who holds a blade to Cora's bared throat. Foot lengths away Alice lays, unmoving. His legs go weak and he forgets to breathe. Chingachgook reaches her and helps her to her feet. Uncas watches her get up and somewhere in his throat his heart begins to beat again.

The minutes following pass in a blur as canoes are commandeered and waterfalls maneuvered. They hide in caves by the biggest waterfall. Duncan has come with them. They seem unable to rid themselves of his presence.

* * *

The caves beneath the falls smell of clay and a hint of salt. The others settle in wringing out their wet clothes as best they can. Nathaniel and Cora hold each other and talk amongst themselves, the sound of the falling water hiding their words. Duncan simmers in the corner. His brother seems more attached than ever to the Monroe daughter. Uncas can see his father approves. Uncas is glad.

His thoughts however are turned toward the other sister. But scanning the cave he sees none of her. The open hallway to beckons. He resists, summoning all his willpower. He is not Nathaniel who can belong to both worlds. He will always be red. She will always be white. His willpower is short lived however and he moves toward the corridor. His fathers eyes follow him. Worried, disproving. He wants to assure Chingachgook that he knows she is not for him. A fish may love a bird, but where would they live. She can not be for him.

He follows along the corridor, a wall of rock on his right and a wall of water on his left. He sees no Alice. His feet walk faster. The shelf to walk on is narrow and the water is strong, a pulling force all its own. He suddenly sees her slender body being pulled into the water, thrashed about to end broken against rocks at the bottom. He breaks into a run.

As he rounds the corner he sees her, close toward where they entered. She stands at the edge her body swaying toward the curtain of water. Her eyes are empty, it is as if she is already dead.

_NO! _" ...GET BACK..." He is grabbing her and shouting with the dull throb of fear in his stomach. He pulls her back and away from the edge and fall up against the hard rock of the cave wall. His chest cushions the fall. Her empty eyes fill with terror now and she begins to hyperventilate fingers clawing at his and her hands grasp his shoulders. She turns, buries her face in his neck. Her shoulders heave and shudder as she cries hot tears soaking his shirt and misting his skin. The water has splattered her hair against her cheek and over her eyes. He pushes back the wet sticky strands and spread his palms over her shoulder blades. After a few moment he feels her speaking and he leans down to hear her. Through her sobs she is speaking nonsense.

"... I saw it... oh god..."

"... and he told us to come... I thought it would be an adventure..."

"... his heart... tore out his heart... so much blood..."

"... this isn't supposed to happen... it isn't supposed to happen this way..."

"... nothing now... there is nothing..."

It is incomprehensible, mumbled and fragmented. He understands it all.

He brushes his lips softly over her head. It is the briefest of touches meant to impart comfort, yet it stills her. He stills himself thinking his touch offensive to her. But when she tilts her head towards his it is not disgust in her eyes. It is desire. Desire for wanting life, desire to feel something other than despair and fear. It is desire for him. Her mouth meets his in a sudden hard desperate press. He pulls back guiltily. This is wrong. It should be Nathaniel and Cora sneaking off to hold each other close not him and this women. He knows this and is about to push her away when she says his name.

_"Uncas"_

She whispers it softly and full of need. She is asking of him this one thing. That he help her forget the pain of a lost father, the press of death, and the loneliness of an alien land. She asks that for a brief moment he helps her forget all these things. And so even though he knows it is wrong he cannot deny her.

As her tongue seeks his he meets it with own. He is still confused and conflicted but under her touch the lust quickly rises to drown it all out. He will take whatever she will give him.

She has already loosened the front laces of her gown and now her hands tug at his shirt, impatient, until he lets go of her to remove it himself. She moans in protest as his mouth leaves hers but as his shirt clears his head his lips are hers again. And this time it is even better because now her hands touch his bare skin. Not in the timid touch of a well bred lady but the uninhibited caress of a women taking what she wants.

Her fingers leaves his chest and he groans into her mouth at the loss but she guides his hands to her dress and together they pull it up and over her head. Underneath there is still her corset with its tight strings and constricting form. He has never dealt with such a contraption before and his normally nimble finger feel leaden, but she guides his hands and finally they are free of it. She stands back away from him to remove her long sleeve chemise and then she is bare except for a sleeveless white slip rendered see through by the moonlight through the water.

He barely has a second to admire her before she is upon him again, grasping and kissing and touching. Her lips leave his and wander down his neck, to the hollow of his throat, down over his nipple. Gasping, arching into her touch, it is as if he comes undone. It is as if all the words he had never said in his years of living have been jarred loose by her and now he can't stop. Uncas, the quiet brother, the silent one, can't stop the words flowing from his mouth. Half in English half in his native tongue the words come in gasps and pants.

She moves her mouth to circle his other nipple and he tells her about his birth, how he is the last of his kind.

She pushes him to the ground, slides the slip off her shoulders and presses his palms to her breasts. He tells her how her hair glows in the moonlight.

She grinds herself against him, fingers undoing his pants even as she moves one of his hands beneath her hem. He tells her how he feared he would always be alone.

She shudders arching into his hand and then adding her own to his. He tells her of his spirit journey. He tells her how he saw a white doe with eyes as deep and bottomless as hers.

She seats her self on him slowly joining them both and he promises things. He makes promises to her that he can not possibly keep.

The lust drowns out everything even the rational part of his brain that knows she will hate them after this is done; because he is a Mohican and she is a gentlemen's daughter and even in this wild land, even with his hands grasping her hips and her nails coursing down his back, they are still worlds apart.

Slowly she moves, her face full of determination and need; finding her rhythm she tears him apart and he tells her everything.

* * *

_AN: Wow the last line sounds like a bad BDSM novel if taken out of context lol. So this was intended to be a one shot Uncas POV of the entire book however since I'm pushing 4,000 words I'm going to break up his POV into two chapters. If there is enough positive feedback I might do an Alice POV._

_My inspiration for writing this fic was a wonderful Alice/Uncas story by bethsaida called 'Metamorphosis'. So if you liked my fic check out hers... right after you leave me a review...yes?_

_PS: Main reason for writing this fic was because there just aren't enough LOTM fics. Common people! Jump on the Alice/Uncas bandwagon and bust out your laptops!_


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: The previous chapter has been edited and a new scene from the fort has been added. Have yourself one more read before this chapter.**

_Disclaimer:__ I make no profit off this story it is simply a way to amuse myself and anyone who is bored enough to read it._

Summery: I should note that the waterfall scene is not something I made up, I am just expounding on a scene in the movie script that didn't make it on screen. All in all I'm only writing scenes that occured either in the book, script, or movie.

_Warning:__ More smutty lemony goodness so if this turns your stomach, turn back now. Also be warned... crazy amounts of angst.  
_

* * *

**"What Is Said In The Silence"**

_Part Two_

* * *

Last time:

_"The lust drowns out everything, even the rational part of his brain that knows she will hate them after this is done; because he is a Mohican and she is a gentleman's daughter and even in this wild land, even with his hands grasping her hips and her nails coursing down his back, they are still worlds apart._

_Slowly she moves, her face full of determination and need; finding her rhythm she tears him apart and he tells her everything._"

* * *

As Uncas loves her in the half light of the night he wonders why he ever thought she was a child of the moon. Even though her hair and skin and eyes are as pale as the moon's waning glow she is none of these things. She is not ice... she is fire. She is molten heat. She is all warmth and friction around him and above him.

Her hands brace on his shoulders for leverage as she pulsates on him. Up and down, and then up again. The pleasure is so intense he can hardly remember his own name, and yet still the words pour from his mouth. A never ceasing, streaming, fountain of words.

She is the softness to his hardness, at once yielding then pushing and pulling at him. All he can do is to grasps her hips in his palms and help her. And she doesn't stop moving, riding him higher and higher; building the flame with her body as her thighs straddle his. Even as he arches into her one last time she still moves on him, reaching down to finish herself off. And it is this sight of her pleasuring herself that sends him spiraling to join her in release.

As he climaxes it is only then that he stops speaking and he is finally silent. Everything has stopped. The world has stopped spinning and he can't think or breathe, only feel. He doesn't understand the feeling. It is like running through the forest with the great elk. Fast, furious, and free. He never thought to feel such a thing with one such as her.

It scares him that he feels so close to her. He knows almost nothing about her. The little he knows of her people he despises. Their customs, their own self importance and conceit. Their never ending greed, and their ability to destroy everything they touch. He knows enough to recognize that her world involves elaborate dress and social constructs while his consists of the thrum beat of earth and sky. They are as different as their shades of skin with no common ground to stand on. All they have in common are quieting gasps, racing hearts, and slack limbs. And yet despite all this he can't help feeling in the moment that she is the closest person to him.

Which is why, brief moments later, he feels a keen loss as she tenses up again, climbing off him and turning away. She refuses to look at him. He reaches for her. She jerks away.

A bitter taste fills his mouth. _Of course_. He can be is nothing to her and he knows this. It was foolish of him to think anything would be different after the intimacy they shared. He had expected this to happen, for her to be ashamed of the moment they shared, but still her coldness strikes him like a knife to his gut. He spilled his soul to her and to be shut out now seems more than he can stand. He glares angrily, resentfully, at her back, her shaking back. Her arms are wound tightly around herself, as if to keep from breaking. Her shoulders quiver. He realizes then. She is crying, pitiful soft sobs.

Guilt strikes him hard, replacing the anger. He reaches for her again and clutches her to him. She cries harder, her tears staining hot against his skin. He doesn't know how to comfort her. He doesn't know how to make this better. He feels helpless.

He holds her tighter to him and wills her sadness away. He wills her to cease crying. She is still stricken with grief or shame, or perhaps both; but gradually her sobs fade out, getting quieter and softer. Silent now, she goes limp in his arms. He reaches down and turns her face towards him. He expects misery, anger, shame, or disgust even in her eyes. Instead what he sees is far more disturbing. Her eyes are empty, her expression flat; as if the life has bled out and all that remains is the pale shell of her skin.

She stares past him and though him. She is somewhere else completely, somewhere safe and warm in the dark recesses of her mind. Somewhere that death, fear, and war can't touch her. Somewhere that even he can't reach her. Nobody can.

Now it is just like she said before. There is nothing.

* * *

He is quiet suddenly aware of the others back in the caves. There is now the pressing fear that someone will come looking for them and find her in her exposed, vulnerable state. He dresses quickly, pulling his shirt back over his head. His buckskin pants were never removed so it is as simple as adjusting the front cloth and he is once again fully dressed.

She sits unmoving, her exposed flesh a fading glow in the twilight. He reaches for the slip bunched around her waist and draws the straps gently over her shoulders. She doesn't react as his fingers brush her skin. Her eyes are vacant.

He finishes dressing her; sliding the chemise, that was discarded on the floor in the heat of passion, over and down her head. Her body is limp, her arms slack and complacent as he guides them through the armholes. Next is her corset, a confusing contraption. He had her help removing it and now he is without her help to replace it.

He doesn't understand why the white man would want to strap their women into a garment that constricts the torso so severely. He wishes to leave it off her. He much prefers the natural contours and curves of her body. But he knows how particular the English women are about being fully dressed and right now the last thing he wants to do is add to her distress.

He turns it over in his hands determined to figure it out. He holds it up to her waist and begins to wrap it around her. There is a sudden glint of rage in her eyes and for a moment she comes to life, yanking the corset from him and throwing it angrily at the falls. But as soon as it is swept away in the water, disappearing from view, she becomes lifeless again.

Her tattered, torn, stained muslin dress is next. The material is surprisingly heavy and he wonders that she was able to walk so far in it all this time. He smooths the folds and wrinkles as best as he can, then helps her to her feet.

She comes docilely. He guides her with a hand on the small of her back. Reaching the others is somewhat of a shock. Everyone appears exactly as he left them. Cora and Nathaniel seem closer than ever, whispering secrets. Duncan still simmers in the corner and his fathers eyes are still disproving. It would be easy to think what passed between him and the girl was all imagined, a fevered fantasy in his head. But one glance at her dull eyes reinstates the truth and the sickening rush of guilt. He leaves her with Cora and turns to leave.

He doesn't meet his fathers accusing eyes.

* * *

Uncas steps out into the night, hoping the fresh air will clear his head. It doesn't. The memory of her over him, moving in the moonlight her flesh melding into his tantalizes his mind. It also consumes him with a strange mixture of guilt and anger.

On one hand he is angry to be so easily tossed aside, doomed to become nothing but an illicit memory to her. Something she can think back to with a private thrill as her future English husband fucks her underneath the covers of their proper English bed in their proper English house. The thought of another man having her sends jealous fire raging thorough his veins.

Then there is, of course, the guilt. He should have known not to touch the white women. He does know. But in that moment when she asked him to love her he didn't have the strength to say no; and now he has to live with the guilt that he wasn't strong enough for the both of them.

He is also terrified that she is disgusted with him, disgusted that a 'savage', a red man touched her. His stomach churns with a general confusion. She has turned his world upside down in a matter of days.

Out of habit his eyes scan the landscape and it is then he spots them. The light from their torches is impossible to ignore. The Huron have found them. He slips quickly back to the falls and informs Nathaniel and his father. With muskets empty and powder wet they have only one choice. They must leave. The falls are dangerous and it is likely that they will meet their death, but if they stay death is certain.

Nathaniel embraces Cora. The look in his eyes as he says his goodbyes to her is the most gentle look that Uncas has ever seen him wear. He wants to do the same with Alice. He wants to pull her in his arms and tell her not to be afraid. He wants to tell her that he will come after her. He wants to tell her that he will find her.

But the few feet between them might as well be an insurmountable chasm. Before he turns to join Nathaniel and Chingachgook he looks back at her one last time. He tries to tell her with his eyes what he cannot say aloud. _I will come for you._ There is a glimmer of answering understanding in her eyes. With the image of her imprinted in his mind he turns back to the falls.

He jumps.

* * *

The rocks are merciless. The water strong.

He is tugged along, swirled and pulled apart. The current sends him crashing into rock after rock. A blow to his chest knocks the breath from his lungs. Spinning, he face plants against a boulder. The collisions stuns him. He can't tell up from down anymore. All he sees are bubbles, the ones escaping his mouth mingle with the surf of the river. It is beautiful and peaceful. The only nagging regret that haunts him is an image of a pale girl with huge sad eyes. He struggles against the water, fighting to reach her even though part of him wants to relax and give into the swirling bubbles.

The blows have slowed him. His limbs feel like lead and his lungs scream for air. The girls image fades, fuzzing out and he realizes. He isn't going to make it.

Then he is grasped and hauled up and out onto a large rock by Nathaniel. Together they fish their father out of the water. They regain their breathe and strength before battling the current again. Reaching the shore they circle back to the falls and spread out, searching for signs of the Huron. Nathaniel finds the trail first, a series of crushes leaves. They follow it, spreading out to cover more ground.

His ribs, crushed and bruised and some broken, beat a dull throb in time with his steps. His nose bleeds. His forehead bleeds. They run on, following a heel print, a overturned stone, a ghost of a disturbed breeze. The drip of his bleeding nose and temple slow. A splash of pale color catches his eye. He reaches down to pluck from a thorny bush a scrap of wispy cloth. The pattern of delicate flowers is torn and dirty but he recognizes it right away. It is Alice's. Suddenly the ache of his body is inconsequential.

He runs faster.

* * *

They come upon the Huron village midday. The sun breaks through the clouds for the first time in weeks, warming their backs and heralding spring. But the warmth of the sunlight cannot chase away the chill of dread lodged in his soul.

The sight of her bound and at their mercy sends a fierce tremor through his body. His first instinct is to run to her, smashing anyone who gets in his way. Nathaniel has a different plan, a plan involving words. Uncas has never liked words and now he must wait and watch and depend on Nathaniel's words to save her. So from above on the bluff overlooking, his father and he watch.

They watch as Nathaniel makes his way down and through the hostile striking braves. They watch as he approaches the women in the midst of the gathered people.

They watch as he pleads with the wise man. They watch as the Huron argue. The words are lost on the wind but they can still see the disagreement and indecision. They watch as a decision is reached and Cora is cut free.

They watch as Duncan is tied to the stake and lit aflame. They watch as Nathaniel drags Cora away to the trees. They watch as the Huron leave, twelve in all, pushing Alice along.

He cannot watch any longer.

He touches his fathers shoulder. The touch says what his words cannot. The touch is a goodbye. He knows now that this is the beginning of the end, but he is not afraid. He runs then, toward fate. He runs to her.

_I will find you._

* * *

He scales the rocky side of the mountain with his bare hands. Desperation and the impending sense of doom lending speed and strength to his exhausted limbs.

Reaching the top he pauses behind a corner rock, gasping for breathe. His abused legs threaten to crumple under him. He ignores this readying his rifle.

The first brave that rounds the bend receives the butt of his musket across the forehead. The one following him is shot down by his only bullet. There will not be time to reload.

Amidst the spray of bullets he takes the next two braves down, one after the other. Countering their muskets with the length of his own.

His arms ache and it is a struggle to carry the musket so he discards it on the ground, pulling his knife and tomahawk.

Then he is upon their leader. A seasoned leather faced warrior with eyes like black coal. The steel of their blades clash. He can see her now, behind the man he now fights. The sight of her lends renewed strength to his heavy limbs and he counters each blow. But this Huron is older than he, more experienced in the art of war and the trade of killing, and his beaten body is tired from the battering from the jump of the falls and the night of running through the forest.

The Hurons knife snakes out, finds an opening and strikes him. Then the tomahawk strikes next. He staggers back. He has taken a shallow gash to the thigh and a deeper one to the gut. He stares downs at his shirt blooming with blood. The Huron steps back waiting for his next move, taunting him, playing with him. He looks up and meets her eyes. Eyes that are no longer flat and vacant, they are alive. Her eyes scream at him to leave her, to save himself.

What she doesn't understand is that he cannot leave her. He needs her. He looks at her and wishes fiercely he had found the words to tell her how he feels.

He stumbles forward, slashing wildly at the Huron, pushing him back toward the ledge, toward the very edge of the cliff. They grapple, arms and legs tangling. They roll, each one seeking the others weakness. The sting of the Hurons blade strikes again. He stands up slowly. His right arm hangs uselessly at his side.

He strikes with his left. A blade slips under his ribs, twisting fire into his side and he cries out. The warrior turns him bringing a blade to his throat.

He wants so many impossible things in that moment. He wants another night in her arms. He wants to watch her hair turn from gold to white. He wants desperately another chance to tell her what she meant to him, a chance to tell her that she drove the loneliness away.

His lips move in a soundless dance even as his neck burbles and spills over. Most of all he wants her eyes to be the last thing he sees in this world. He is spun and pushed. As he teeters on the edge he sees her and and he is content. It is enough.

Then he is falling, the rush of sky all around him. He whispers soundlessly to her.

_I have found you._

* * *

_fin_

* * *

_AN: So there you have it... I did my best to give Uncas's death some dignity. Hopefully that's how it reads._

_Uncas's struggle underwater was taken from a personal experience of mine. When I was four my family was white water rafting on inner tubes and one flipped. My dad was holding me in his lap and lost me in the water. All I remember of it was bubbles, lots and lots of bubbles. The experience wasn't frightening to me because I didn't realizes I was drowning. My dad dove in and got me out soon after and it all ended up fine. (I don't blame them, they were young and hippies and stupid). Ironically enough I practically live in the water. I work in the water, workout in the water, and play (ocean swims) in the water. So everything worked out in the end._

_Whew long tangent... anyways I would love to hear what you all think about this story. If you did enjoy this and want more I might be persuaded to do a companion fic (if I am inspired) in the same style only in Alice POV. Basically her take on everything. Let me know if you all would be into that._

_All in all I hope you enjoyed reading... I certainly had fun writing this. It would make my day, scratch that, my week if you review!_


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